


Abandonment Issues or Whatever (A remix of This is How All My Dreams Start)

by Wreckage



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: But anyway Gwaine is a rockstar, Cigarettes, M/M, Musicians, Seriously everyone in this verse needs some gosh darn therapy, There are no therapists in Camelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreckage/pseuds/Wreckage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine plays his best gig yet - but his mind is elsewhere.</p><p>Dear rameau! You said you like rare pairs - and the Hair Pair happens to be my favourite one of those. The rules said nothing about gift fics being out of bounds, so I went right ahead! I hope you enjoyy <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandonment Issues or Whatever (A remix of This is How All My Dreams Start)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rameau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rameau/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This Is How All My Dreams Start](https://archiveofourown.org/works/461085) by [rameau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rameau/pseuds/rameau). 



It's a rush, a touch of insane hubris, to hear the crowd roar. For a small club located in an old bunker - nobody can say they don't have style - these kids make an awful lot of noise. And so do the band. The screech of Merlin's voice, the equally powerful screech of guitars, Percy firing the snare drum like a machine gun. Never has Gwaine felt more sure of it. This is a good band. This is _his_ band. He bangs out the last chord of the song with a vehement finality, putting a full stop to a statement that surely can't be ignored. This is the kind of gig that will go down in history. Perhaps not in mainstream history, but the kind of history kids in clubs will whisper about for decades, that will be referenced in in-the-know rock magazines as pivotal moments, and that fortysomething culture snobs years from now will snootily claim to have witnessed. Okay, this train of thought is very confident, perhaps a bit over the top. But he is the gregarious, dauntless and dashing lead guitarist - if anyone is allowed to let the cup overflow with confidence, it's Gwaine.

 

The screaming from the crowd dies down a bit. He plays a slow riff. The rest of the band are silent; this is Gwaine's song for now. He lets his fingers play along the neck. He is tracing familiar movements. Everything seems to have sobered up a bit, the tender, intimate guitar a shock after the high energy of the last number. They pulled off a difficult transition there, he is dimly aware, somewhere in the back of his mind where the showman lives, always commenting. In his hands, however, it is the musician that lives right now. The musician and the lover. The dry ice in the air doesn't smell anything like cigarette smoke, but the ghost of that poison is still stuck in his nose.

 

It was the smell that coaxed him awake today, and even though he hates it, it lit an errant spark of joy in his chest immediately. He has good reasons to detest cigarette smoke. He does some vocal work after all. The band relies on him for harmonies, and to sing some of their sillier songs. Crowd favourites, of course. If his lungs are threatened, then so is his livelihood.

 

Not that he really earns his entire living with this band. Not yet. In time, though. No-one is surer than he is.

 

Yet with all that reasonable skepticism, he keeps a plate for the ashes there in the windowsill. It makes him responsible, of course, an enabler to this terrible addiction and the threat to his own breathing. But it is common sense. If there is nowhere in Gwaine's flat to stump a cigarette, then Leon will end up stumping one on the floor, or a table, or most likely in between Gwaine's sheets. Now _that_ is a safety hazard. It would be foolish to risk the building burning down just because he's anti-smoking. Anti-smoking and pro-Leon, it is the combination that is damning. He can't very well have him go outside. Even for a fag. He doesn't like seeing Leon leave, he prefers leaving his flat before Leon goes, and when he returns he pretends that it was always empty. Empty and vaguely smelling of cigarettes. It's stupid to fear the sight of Leon walking away, and it's probably because he is a damaged soul in need of therapy he'll never ask for. Abandonment issues or whatever. Instead of dealing with that, then, he reached an arm out from where he'd fallen asleep hugging his acoustic - as if that angular wooden box were a suitable cuddly toy - to touch Leon, to make sure he was there, that the smell wasn't lying. Instead, now, he reaches into his music and brings the audience ever closer, closer to his heart, in a language he knows will resonate with them, make them all understand him better than anyone ever could without knowing anything about him at all.

 

Leon's mouth tastes of cigarettes. Gwaine doesn't mind enough to keep from kissing him. He has grown used to it, almost fond of it. A contagious addiction. A killing addiction. Sometimes he panics that every time Leon lights one of those things, he moves a few inches, a few hours closer to death and further away from Gwaine. And he is choosing to, he is choosing to leave, and when those thoughts come, Gwaine's heart beats too fast and he has to concentrate to breathe.

"You should quit."

Leon's heartbeat in his hand is always steady. Real. Warm. Here. Now.

"I want to keep you around for a long time."

 

The vocals enter the song, and instead of screeching, Merlin sings softly now, a fragile and beautiful sound. But though the voice is his, the words are not. The song is not. This is Gwaine's song, but he's taken care not to broadcast that, because it's private. It is between him and Leon, and Leon hasn't even heard it yet. He plays the background to Merlin, letting the rest of the band join in and make a sound out of the ache inside him. His eyes are closed, and he is smiling. This is what he loves the most, for something so private to become something so communal, so cathartic.

 

When he's not on stage, he tends to avoid emotion. The showman is always there, hunting for smiles. When Leon smiles, his whole body shifts slightly. It's just a small adjustment, but Gwaine can always tell, even the smallest and briefest smile is obvious. It is as if Leon's face does not know how to act on its own. Leon is a continuous operation, a coherent process rather than separate, distinct parts. Consistent. Maybe even boring. A boring old square with a disgusting smoking habit, and Gwaine loves feeling his body move with his smiles.

 

Even when he dropped down heavily on Leon, the 'oof' he let out sounded like a laugh. As if having his breath knocked out of him by a graceless and sleepy would-be rockstar was an absolutely charming thing to happen in the afternoon. Gwaine needed him then, he needed that laugh, that touch, the feeling of their bodies aligned. Oh, he still needs Leon, even now, when he's not here, and Gwaine is on stage with his band, his fans, his family. He needs to kiss him, needs to touch him, needs to have him, and it makes him almost angry. He didn't intend to fall for Leon, and doesn't know if Leon intends to fall for him, in fact, he is more than _almost_ angry, but it feels good, this anger, it feels warm. It feels real.

 

A stupid addiction.

 

He plays through the all too short time he had with him today in his mind while his hands find the chords to the bridge. They are the right emotions for this part, the showman tells him, good choice, it will make the performance believable. Shut up, he tells the showman, he wants to go back through them anyway. He wants to have Leon there in his mind.

_Morning._

_Evening._

 

Fucking pedant.

 

_That's not what you're asking._

_We're never quick._

 

_You. Come. First._

 

It's true. He comes before all this. Before Gwaine's dream, before his first love, music, and he said it as a joke, but there is no music anymore without Leon. He opens his eyes and watches the audience. They love it. They love him. What he's doing here, it works. It's right. As he sees them, he can feel Leon's hands all over him. His mouth, his teeth, his fucking fingers. And there, in front of the crowd while he plays the end of the song, playing them out solo just like he played them in, Gwaine grins and _blushes_. It is strange, this sudden, angry love that has happened to him, but he kind of likes it.

 

When they've finally unplugged and coiled up every cable, carefully stowed away all of Percy's intricate kit, and downed the celebratory beers after their best gig yet, the song that is stuck in Gwaine's head is not one of their own. And it is not even sung in its original form - it is Leon's whispery voice that hums the lyrics out inside his head.

 

_I've been breaking hearts for far too long_

_Loving you, for far too long_

_It's time I leave, it's time I'm moving on._

 

He said he'd be there. Those were his words, "I'll be there, tomorrow," but there is always the chance that he won't be. And Gwaine's heart beats too fast again. And he almost dreads going back to his flat, because he doesn't know if it will smell of dust or incense or cigarettes. He doesn't know if his bed will be empty or occupied.

 

This stupid, killing addiction. These stupid fucking abandonment issues, or whatever they fucking are.

 

 

 


End file.
